Knee Pads

32 | jammer

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | JAMMER

jammers are the point scorers for their teams. each team is permitted one jammer per jam. the jammers are identified by stars on their helmet cover.

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          Corinne was still shaking when I found her outside, but she walked surprisingly fast, even with heels on.

          Luckily for me, my endurance had gotten better. Though she had a head start on me, I managed to catch up to her in no time, before she vanished into the darkness and something bad happened—regardless of whether that was just my fears and paranoia speaking or not.

          "Corinne, wait," I called. At this time of the evening, the campus was still well lit, with people heading out and into their night-time lectures, some of them wandering around the cafeteria, and that was without mentioning the active Greek life—something we should be heading towards. Even then, Corinne knew how to hide when she didn't want to be found and, had it not been for the brightness of her hair and the soft clicking of her heels on the pavement, I might have lost her. Emphasis on might, as I highly doubted that. "Corinne, you need to cut me some slack here. I can't walk as fast as you."

          The clicking stopped. That meant Corinne had, too, and she was giving me an opportunity to catch up to her. When I found her, she was still as stiff as an iron bar, arms crossed so tightly her fists were digging into the fabric of her leather jacket, right above her elbows, but her tears had dried even before she left Coach's office.

          She was just standing there, waiting for me to join her, and, when I did, neither of us was quite sure how to proceed. I knew I needed to give her time to handle everything that had just happened—I knew I needed time, and I hadn't been the one going through the traumatic process of confronting an emotionally abusive parent and using those exact words to describe that treatment.

          It was the first time I'd ever heard it come out of Corinne's mouth, too, and Coach would never admit to doing such a thing. When she agreed with me, all those weeks ago, she just thought she'd done something bad, an oopsie, but things were much deeper than one or two mistakes. This was Corinne's whole life, shaped and influenced by everything she'd been taught, and Coach would never understand that—not after one or two conversations, at least.

          "I guess that's it," she said, after an eternity of silence. "I did it. I confronted her."

          "How are you feeling?"

          She exhaled, shoulders shaking, and I tentatively set my hands on them, wishing there were a way I could fix this. Realistically, I knew I couldn't, but I could be there for her and that would have to be enough. For me, it was enough.

          "I don't know. I'm still in shock. I've talked back to her so many times in my life, but it felt different this time. It felt . . . definite. I'm standing here wondering if that was the right thing to do or if I just completely burned the last bridge connecting me to her for no reason. It feels like . . . all I've ever done was for her. It was always about her and what made her happy and, now that I've told her I'm not doing it anymore, what else am I supposed to do? Doing what she wanted me to do was the one thing she ever praised me for; skating, getting good grades, all that was secondary. What mattered was that I obeyed and met her expectations. It's all I've ever known how to do, but I can't do that anymore. It feels like I've thrown my life away now."

          "I think you've done something really brave, for what it's worth. A few months ago, you wouldn't have bothered with confronting her."

          She scoffed. "What good did it ever bring me, being brave? Bravery, dedication, tenacity. All of it just made me miserable. I even started talking to someone, a therapist"—I hoped my surprise wouldn't show in my facial expression and discourage her from continuing to talk, as she had never mentioned a therapist to me—"because I decided to take your advice and 'break the cycle'." She drew the quotation marks in the air with her fingers. "Had to go behind everyone's backs because I couldn't talk to anyone that works here without being scared word would go flying back to my mom, and then I had to find one that wouldn't tip her off by not being covered by our insurance. I've been going there for weeks, and this is the first time I've made some progress, and I should be happy about it, but I just feel so . . . dirty." She fell to a concrete bench, arms still crossed. "My therapist just sat there, looked me in the eye, and said 'you know, all you're describing sounds like emotional abuse to me'.